Alex stepped out of the interrogation room, leaving Liam alone with access to his phone. It was the only way to verify his claims—if today's question really existed.
Out in the hallway, a man in a long trench coat approached. His presence was immediate, deliberate.
"Morning, Officer."
Alex looked him over. "You are?"
"Detective Knight," the man replied, flashing his badge. "I'm taking over this case. Your reclassification of the suicide as a homicide wasn't well-received by the higher-ups. Especially since you never submitted a justification."
Alex clenched his jaw. He had, on his own authority, reclassified the case and arrested Liam as a murder suspect. Without evidence, it had drawn attention.
"They couldn't at least ask me why?"
"No. I was sent to take over. Orders are orders."
Before Alex could respond, Felicia appeared, stepping into the corridor. "What's going on?"
"We've been booted," Alex muttered. His eyes studied Knight carefully.
In his mind, something was unraveling. Over a hundred suicides had occurred yesterday—every single one bizarre. The victims had no histories of mental illness. There was video proof that each was self-inflicted, yet zero explanation as to why. If Liam's insane story about the Would You Rather game held even a sliver of truth... why hadn't they heard about it from anyone else?
Liam had mentioned something strange. Something that planted doubt in Alex's mind. Corruption. Hidden players. And now this—Detective Knight, appearing out of nowhere to seize control. A well-known figure in law enforcement, Knight was reputed for solving the most complex cases involving syndicates and serial killers. But few had ever seen his face.
Even now, he wore a face mask. Shady, quiet, efficient. The kind of man who either uncovers cover-ups—or buries them.
The absurd suddenly felt plausible.
Felicia noticed Alex's intense stare. "What's with the glare? Less work for us."
Knight turned to Alex. "I'll need to speak with the suspect. I also want the interrogation recordings."
Alex hesitated, then lied. "I forgot to record it."
A lie delivered coldly. No apology. He didn't trust this man—not anymore. A part of him believed Liam. If the force was compromised, he'd play his cards close.
"Amateur mistake. Don't repeat it." Knight walked to the interrogation room and paused at the door. "I'd prefer no eavesdropping. This case no longer concerns you. Please leave."
Alex nodded stiffly. "Sure."
Knight entered and closed the door behind him. He moved like a man entirely in control. "Good morning, Mr. Liam Dye. That is your name, correct?"
"Yes," Liam replied, watching him carefully. Something about Knight's voice immediately stood out—it was raspy and oddly unnatural, as if he were forcing it.
"I'm Detective Theodon Knight." He took a seat in a composed, gentlemanly manner, pulling out his phone and beginning an audio recording. "I have a few questions. Let's start with the obvious—how did you do it?"
"Sorry?" Liam was shocked by that question. As far as he knew, only Alex had heard about the suicide prediction.
"Never mind that one," Knight said casually, as if brushing lint off a jacket. "We'll circle back. Tell me, would you consider yourself close with the victim, Lydia Ryder?"
Knight sounded oblivious. Liam decided to play it safe—no mention of the game, no risky truths.
"Not particularly. We talk sometimes. I'd say acquaintances at best."
"Did she ever seem suicidal to you? Any signs—withdrawn, insecure, self-deprecating?"
"I didn't know her well enough to say."
"Were you anywhere near the scene?"
"No. I was in a different building. I didn't even hear about it until Officer Quinn arrested me."
"Hm." Knight ended the recording, his tone shifting abruptly. The formal mask fell away.
"Alright," he said, sitting up with sudden energy. "Let's cut the crap."
Liam blinked. "Excuse me?"
"How did you kill her?"
There was a pause.
"Can you repeat that?" Liam asked, stunned.
"How. Did. You. Kill her?" Knight repeated, now leaning forward, elbows on the table, chin resting on his hands like a gossiping teenager with a secret.
"I don't understand…"
"Of course you do," Knight said with a grin. His posture was animated now, shifting constantly. "You predicted a suicide without any evidence. No history of depression. No threats, no signs. It was clean. Perfect, even. And that, Mr. Dye, is what makes it murder."
Liam stayed quiet, unmoving.
"In cases like this, when there's no trace of force or motive, and yet a death occurs, it's usually the work of someone brilliant. Someone precise." Knight's eyes were wide now—excited, almost reverent. "Am I right, Liam?"
Liam remained still. He had the right to remain silent, and he fully intended to use it.
"Relax," Knight said. "You're not going to prison. If anything, I admire the work. The only mistake you made was opening your mouth to Officer Quinn a day too early. Why'd you do it? Pride?"
He leaned in farther, almost climbing across the table.
"Serial killers sometimes leave little breadcrumbs for the cops—marks, patterns, paintings in blood—just for the thrill of it. Is that you, Liam? Are you playing a game?"
Liam's expression didn't change. Calm. Detached. Indifferent. But inside, his thoughts were racing.
Knight chuckled, finally sitting back with a smirk. "You're only nineteen, and already a professional. I'm impressed. Truly. You've got talent. I'm now a fan."
He laughed quietly to himself, then leaned in once more, lowering his voice.
"No... If you're thinking I came here to put you behind bars, no. I came to offer you a job."